The King of Fernwood
by Jako Small Fry
Summary: I, Tom Nook, am the undisputed king.
1. Chapter 1

**I own nothing.**

I hate frogs.

As a woodland creature myself, I'm fond of owls, squirrels, and even rabbits. They're friendly. They're predicable. The owl hunts at night, the squirrel collects nuts for winter, and the rabbit eats carrots. If you respect them, they respect you.

That's why I severely distrust frogs. They're always changing. They're unnatural. At birth, they swim in small ponds, and eventually they grow legs and hop around all over my land. They eat whatever they can wrap their slimy tongues around. Unlike the harmonious equilibrium my fellow woodland creatures have developed, frogs live in their own worlds, completely disregarding any sense of order.

I trust you'll understand, then, why I had to eliminate Frobert.

The moment Frobert moved into our town of Fernwood, I knew he threatened the natural order of things. I've sold property to countless people in countless towns, so I know the flow of business: Several potential buyers would evaluate the property, they would name a price (assuming they expressed interest), and after review, I would sell it to whoever offered the highest payment.

Before I continue, I certainly hope you don't think poorly of me. I pride myself on being a successful businessman, and in the world of money, every decision must maximize your own benefit.

Now, onto my problem with Frobert. He made a deal I couldn't refuse. The other offers—from a cat named Kiki, a duck named Deena, and a rather voluptuous tigress named Bianca—were nowhere near as high as Frobert's. Normally I wouldn't allow such a creature into my town.

So, like all great businessmen, I made a plan.

Fast forward a week or so. I was busy running my store. I had plans next week for renovation, and I was hiring my sister's twin sons—Timmy and Tommy—to help out with the store. Business went as expected. I sold a few pieces of furniture, and I bought around seventy-seven peaches from the sole human in our town of Fernwood (who goes by the name of Shad0wCrux69).

Once the sun started setting, I closed the shop, and made my way over to the beach. I typically read, drink some tea, or go for a short run, but today I mounted an umbrella and a chair by the shore. I sat a pillow on it, and then covered it with a blanket.

A villager, a wolf named Wolfgang, gave me a curt greeting. I waved back to him, and then sat on the sand, waiting.

By the time the sun was fully set, every soul in Fernwood was asleep. After waiting some time, I took my bag, and carefully walked toward a one-story, dark grey house in the center of town. The night always calmed me—we raccoons love the dark—but tonight I was unusually relaxed. I felt that a great weight would soon be lifted off my shoulders. I think it's safe to say I was _excited_ about tonight's events.

However, everything was almost ruined by Sally, the neighborhood squirrel.

I froze, cringing, as a door opened. Sally checked her mailbox—who checks their mail at midnight?—and her eyes widened upon sight of me.

"What are you up to, Tom?"

I gritted my teeth. Slowly, I turned around, while I put on my best poker face.

"Good evening, Sally," I said. "I forgot something at the store. I was heading there right now. If you don't mind me asking, what are _you_ doing up so late?"

"I was just checking my mail," Sally replied as if it were even remotely normal for a squirrel to check her godforsaken mailbox hours after the sun set. "I'm expecting a letter from my friend, BigBoss313, from one town over." She scrunched up her face, clearly distraught. "I told him to write to me, but my mailbox was empty yesterday."

I put on my widest smile: the one I save for when a customer says something supremely stupid, or tries to sell me a fossil for the tenth time.

"Sally," I chided, "the mailman doesn't deliver until morning."

"Oh... I'll just check tomorrow, then. Good night, Tom."

I massaged my face. I'm not sure why, but smiling really takes a toll on me. I would much rather have screamed at her, called her a #!$ # (I'm not entirely sure why certain words come out like that; it happens in every town I've been to, though only the humans and I seem to notice it).

 _She doesn't suspect anything_ , I thought. I collected myself, and continued walking.

The lights were all out now. The only sounds were crickets chirping in the distance. I quietly surveyed the perimeter of Frobert's house: checked which windows were covered, where Frobert's bed was, et cetera. I unzipped my bag, and put on a ski mask and gloves. Again, I looked around the town: not a soul.

Crowbar in hand, I pried an exterior vent open. It fell with a crash, but all things considered, there was hardly a chance of anyone waking up. The inside of the vent was dusty and small, and as I navigated through the maze on the inside, I found an opening into the main room of the house. Carefully, I unscrewed the vent door, stuffed it into my backpack, and lowered myself down.

I ducked, and pulled the curtains for the two windows. Frobert lay there on his bed, his torso slowly retracting and expanding with his breathing. I shut the door, pulled up a chair, and sat there. I'll be honest with you, there's nothing I love more than this moment—the tranquil, uninterrupted peace in every person's house. Out of the hundreds of homes I've broken into—those of dogs, cats, fish—there's always something I've never been able to attain inside my own home. The home seemed to be covered in a huge, warm blanket, working to soothe my nerves. I could sit there for hours (sometimes I did) just staring at them sleep, just listening to them breathe. It almost hurt me to break the peace, but I had to, eventually.

I took a baseball bat. I crept to the edge of Frobert's bed. That was when I broke it. Again, I hated ending the silence, but I really, truly and sincerely, hated frogs.

There's really nothing quite like it, let me tell you. I won't give you the gruesome details—well, imagine bashing an overripe peach with your fist. That's the sound they make. Now imagine the juice spraying out—all the thick, delicious fluid flying out of the fruit's skin, coating your fists and painting the walls. That's what it's like.

And the feeling— Do I even have to describe it?

When it was over, I stuffed the home's ex-resident into a garbage bag, and then carried him outside, to the beach. There, I heaved it upward, flinging it at least ten feet into the ocean. The waves would carry the body out—they always did.

I stuffed the gloves and ski mask into the bag, and collected the umbrella, chair, pillow, and blanket I'd set out before. If anyone were to ask where I'd been, I'd simply say I was relaxing on the beach. Wolfgang would vouch for me. Were Copper or Booker (the town policemen) to become suspicious, someone would support my story of relaxing on the beach.

I smoothed out my hair. I'd been right, before, about the weight being lifted off my shoulders Tomorrow, I'd auction off the house. I'd tell everyone that Frobert moved away at the last minute. In this business, people "moved out" all the time. Times were tough, and people gained and lost property all the time—no one would give Frobert a second thought; they would forget him, and happily greet the newest resident of Fernwood.

Hopefully, I'd approve of him.

I'm Tom Nook, and I'm the king of Fernwood.


	2. Chapter 2

**Again, I own nothing; not Animal Crossing, not these characters, not even this copy of Microsoft Word (joking).**

Before I begin, I'll give you a short rundown of how the world works. Everything can be explained with a single word: _Flow._

Everything flows. Materials flow—tables come from wood, wood comes from trees, trees come from seeds, et cetera. Similarly, money flows—the government gives it to banks, banks to people, people to businesses, and so on.

Finally, power flows. Power, much like wood and money, flows amongst people and corporations and nature and so on. Thus, I admire power—its stability, its consistency. You get the idea.

You'll understand, then, why I was suspicious of Will.

Allow me to backtrack. I first noticed something was wrong when I walked to my shop after spending a few hours at the beach (no, I wasn't hiding a body). I had sold Frobert's residence to a human several days prior. His name was Will, and he was an oddball. Anyway, upon passing by his home, I spotted Will leaving his house and confronting the mail-pelican, Pete.

I normally don't give a flying blubber nugget what Pete was up to, but I couldn't easily ignore this confrontation. Will looked aggressive—quite a feat for an ever-smiling bobble-headed human with only a set number of default expressions. When Will spoke to Pete, Pete became nervous. Will flailed his arms around; he raised his voice, apparently asking for news about some letter he was supposed to receive.

"I don't know," Pete pleaded. "It might have gotten lost in the mail... It might come tomorrow, Will."

"Look again," said Will. "You might've missed it."

Curiously, I watched Pete fumble inside his bag. He shook his head at Will.

"Check the office again," said Will. I'm not certain why, but Will sounded threatening. I don't know if I've ever seen such an aggressive human before.

Nevertheless, it was none of my business. Furthermore, as you'll soon understand, it was not in my best interests to go prying in Will's business. I returned to my shop without a word. As expected, the unimaginably annoying music boomed in my ears, and my two nephews greeted me.

"We watched your store like you told us, Uncle Tom," said Timmy.

"Can we close down soon?" asked Tommy. "I'm hungry."

"We never close. You should know that by now," I said. I walked around the store, including the upstairs, and ensured nothing was broken or missing. Seriously, I don't trust kids, even my own blood. I did, however, appreciate their work here; it was cheap labor, and along with the expansion of the store itself, I've been raking in more revenue than ever before.

When the bell chimed, I was quite surprised to see Will enter the store. I tried forgetting the recent events, and put on my signature poker face.

"Hello," Will said.

After a brief back-and-forth, Will got down to work. By that, I mean he first sold me about nine stacks of ninety-nine peaches. He then proceeded to walk around the store and purchase every single item I had for sale—everything down from the furniture to the umbrella to the music player.

At this point in the story, you may be wondering: _Why didn't you freak out, Tom?_ The simple answer to that was I had grown used to it. This guy—Will—entered my store every single day since he moved here, sold me countless peaches (stack upon stack upon stack of peaches, so many peaches I knew he had to have leveled a forest to obtain them, so many peaches I was running out of trunks to store them in, so many peaches that I was certain somewhere out there a small nation whose currency was the peach was being bankrupted), and then proceeded to empty my store, buying everything.

I had several theories as to what he was up to. One, he was part of an underground organization that supplied him with peaches, and all of my products were being sold under-the-table to a cartel; two, his father owned a peach factory, and he used his wealth to fuel his fetish for oak furniture; or three, he was pulling my leg somehow.

As he left the store, his pockets full of bookcases and tables, I told Timmy (or Tommy, I couldn't remember which one was which) to count our revenue for the day. I then came to the conclusion that, because Will was bringing me so many bells relative to before, he'd more or less fully paid his debt to me.

And I was glad, too: I needed a reason to go over there.

I headed to his house upon sunset. Business was slowing down, and I was sure Timmy and Tommy could handle things while I was gone. After cleaning myself up, I made my way to his residence.

"Evening, Tom," said Will. He'd just left his house, and was checking his mailbox.

"Will!" I said. "Just the man I wanted to see."

Upon seeing the contents (or lack thereof) of his mailbox, Will's nostrils flared. He slammed his mailbox shut, and muttered, "&*#T%$."

"Sorry," I said. I straightened up. "Is this a bad time?"

"No, no. I'm sorry. You were saying?"

I then explained the situation. He looked pleasantly surprised, though not particularly ecstatic. He nodded along, his feet slowly growing more and more restless.

"Thank you for your consideration," said Will.

"Is that a yes?"

He nodded. "I'll upgrade my house. Name your price. I'll have to take a loan again. However, I need to settle some urgent business with the post office. Can we discuss things tomorrow?"

"Of course. Is it any trouble if I... take a look around?" I gestured toward his home.

It came upon him in a microsecond: a quick flash, nothing more, but I saw it. His face resumed to its normal look, and he said, "The place is a mess, I'm afraid. I'll..." He looked seriously distraught. "We can discuss things tomorrow. I'll stop by the shop first thing in the morning." With that, he took off at a sprint, toward the post office.

It was then that I knew what I had to do. Once he was out of sight, I opened his door.

The flash across his face was exactly what I was looking for: a micro-expression. The moment I suggested entering his house, shock and worry shot across his face subconsciously. He'd regained his composure quickly enough, but his face had temporarily betrayed him. Now I knew he was hiding something.

I shut the door. The inside of his home was nothing like I'd imagined it: and by that I mean it was empty. He had nothing but the bed and desk that came with the home, and then several trunks along the perimeter of the main room.

They were, I presumed, filled with all my merchandise. Carefully, making sure no one was outside the windows, I opened one of the trunks.

Empty. Not a single thing, in any of the slots. (Note: I do not, nor do I even pretend to understand how anyone could fit entire bookcases into a trunk; but the fact remains that Will should have had this thing filled to the brim with furniture, because damn it, that's just how it works.)

I checked the others. None of the trunks had anything inside of them. Frowning, and smelling something fishy, I walked around the rest of the room. If there was anything suspicious, Will was hiding it marvelously...

It was then that I saw a cockroach. It was a tiny little thing, scampering around the corner of the room. My first thought was, _Can't this guy keep his house clean?_ but then it occurred to me. It seemed odd that the new resident of this home would have neglected the primary storage room to the point where there would be roaches.

I sauntered across the room, and pounded the little roach under my furry foot. I hate bugs. They feed off the neglect of lazy homeowners. They were freeloaders, and unnecessary parts of the beautiful system I had established for myself. And they breed like—well, cockroaches.

Another. Seriously. Another cockroach. This one evaded me. It juked my first stomp, then my second. It scurried under a trunk.

I heaved the mighty thing away, and the roach froze in terror, like a deer before headlights (no offense, deer residents of Fernwood), and I crushed it. Dead. Gone from this earth...

And then I stomped again, in the same place. I stomped once more, in fact. My eyebrows slowly furrowed.

I scooted backwards, and then stomped on a different part of the floor. It barely gave. Then I stomped where the trunk was before. It was louder, and the wood depressed underneath the weight of my foot. Curious, I knelt down, and felt around the floor, feeling for something kind of hinge, some crack...

A crack. I followed it to the wall, and saw a hinge blending in with the edge of the wall. Yanking it, and pulling away some of the paint, a trapdoor unhinged and opened before me.

It was then that I knew who I was dealing with. The space was only about a foot deep. If I tried carefully, and arched my back to a horrific angle, I could only just barely squeeze inside. Will must have known—he created this depression knowing it was small enough not to be noticed if we installed a basement, but large enough so he could get—and hide things—inside.

I lowered myself into the hole. I thought back to my childhood. I'll spare you the details of orphan Tom being left alone in the wilderness to fend for himself—just know that I was breaking a vow. I had promised myself I would never crawl on all fours again—like an animal—but I _had_ to get answers.

I crawled. And crawled. I crawled for what seemed like hours. I knew I had long-passed Will's property; I probably passed many people's homes. I could see nothing in the dark reaches of the tunnel. I felt the crushing, omnipresent weight of perhaps four pounds of dirt pressing down upon me. Wiping a tear, and swearing revenge on Will for this ordeal, I quickened my pace.

Eventually, I saw a light. I hurried. Like the mighty earthworm, I pushed my way toward the light. It wasn't before long that I fell down into a cavern.

You can imagine my thought process upon realizing I was in a perfectly cubic space: clearly manmade. Will had done this—but with his shovel? This would have taken hours—days. But all questions left my mind upon scanning the contents of the cavern.

There was but a single item inside. Sitting there, on the opposing wall, was an archway. It was a metallic archway mounted on a pedestal, and within the ring was an ocean of lights. Purple, green, blue, white, orange—they swam around like a pool, swirling impossibly, beckoning me forward. Before I knew it, I was standing before it. I heard things... Voices. Cries. Caws. Barks. No, I wasn't going insane. I heard the sounds of a thousand towns, a thousand cities with a thousand residents. I heard doors slam, dogs bark, birds chirp, water splash. I heard them all and more, like I was standing in the auditorium of all worlds and the symphony of their histories were echoing off the walls.

I raised a hand to reach it—to touch it. I wanted to be a part of it. I stepped onto the pedestal. But was it wise? What was I leaving behind? My store was still manned by the likes of Timmy and Tommy. There were residents here—people who needed me, people who looked up to me.

But who stood on the other end of the archway? What was I missing if I _didn't_ step into it?

I knew it, then. Perhaps I'd known it all my life. I had to take a leap of faith...

I stepped forward.

*I apologize if I lost some of you there. I'm sorry for ending on such a cliffhanger: I'll elaborate on what I saw upon entering the archway. For now, just know that I firmly believe the archway was a portal to another world. Again, I'll provide details next time. For now, farewell.

-Tom Nook


End file.
